


TBI, TBC

by orphan_account



Category: Red Robin (Comics), Superboy (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: M/M, the first chapter has a depiction of a football injury but theres no blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22807309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Conner Kent has been chasing dreams of being a football star for as long as he can remember.But after a major injury, that dream ends. And no one can know just how deep the consequences of Conner's injuries go.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	TBI, TBC

If there’s a hell, and Kon isn’t convinced there is, he was there yesterday.

He can still feel the bruises his so-called teammates left him. His head still aches from where it was slammed to the tile floor, but his head is the least of his worries. It’s a goddamn miracle they didn’t break anything, the way number twenty-five and seventy-two pounded on him.

If it were any other time in the season, Kon would’ve pressed charges. Or at least told his coach. Someone. Anyone.

(At least, he’s pretty sure he would.

He used to tell people when something was wrong—used to tell Ma, at least. Maybe Clark. And a long, long time ago, Lex. He could still tell them. Any of them. It’s just—does he really need to? He’s grown up now. An adult. They don’t need to worry about him any more than they already do.)

But he can’t make a fuss about it tonight. There are scouts out there, recruiting early. Kon’s already been shortlisted for the NFL—already knows that if he continues to impress, he’s going onto the professional leagues as soon as he graduates college.

And then it won’t matter that he majored in business like Lex strong-armed him into. Or that he minored in Mass Comm, like Clark encouraged him when he was bored to death with all of his business classes.

It won’t matter, because Conner will be able to do the one thing he’s really, really good at.

So it doesn’t matter that his lungs ache and he can’t really breathe when he runs. He’s going to get out there and show his scouts exactly what they want to see. And that’s a guy who can take a few punches. Who can take a beating way worse than yesterday’s, whether it’s on the field or off—

And who can still take that goddamn ball and run it from one end of the field to the other.

\--

Conner isn’t running right.

At least, he isn’t running correctly. He’s almost positive he’s running right—not left, even if he’s getting his directions all mixed up. He’s running towards the correct goal post, anyways. Running towards it with everything he’s got. And his teammates are backing him up—helping him, he thinks.

Until he feels something try to slam into his side.

Conner’s too fast, though. Slippery.

He speeds up, pouring energy into a body that feels like it’s about to break. Like a car barely attached to the wheels, being forced to go 95 on a 65 road, with no gas in the tank. 

But they’re so close on the scoreboard. So close to winning. So close to getting his dream.

Once he’s close enough, he lobs the ball in the direction it needs to go. Kon knows his energy’s depleted. He knows it’s his last chance.

And he also knows that he’ll be trampled. But damn it, he’ll show those scouts what Conner Kent can handle. He’s seen professional players go through so much worse and keep playing. He just has to make it there, and in order to make it there, he has to make it through this.

But then—

But then, he feels something **_slam_** into his side.

The ball has already left his hands—so he doesn’t understand, at first.

But he knows the color of this uniform.

He knows that it’s the same as his own.

And before he can ask why—ask what he did to deserve this—

Then the ball comes back into his hands.

And then, there’s the other team, piling onto him.

Whatever happened to the ball after it left Conner’s arms is beyond him. All he knows is that it’s there again. And there’s a thousand pounds of pressure pushing in on him from all sides.

Then his helmet hits the ground.

Then his head hits his helmet.

And everything goes dark.

* * *

The doctors are pleasant people. Martha Kent knows this, and she knows that this is their job, and that they do a very good job. And that they’ve done a very, very good job with her boy.

But for god’s sake, it’s been three days, and Conner hasn’t woken.

No matter how much money Lex Luthor has personally invested in Conner, it won’t be enough until Martha sees her baby boy open his eyes and tell her, himself, that he feels okay.

Half an hour ago, the nurse, Dr. Watson, said that Conner would be waking shortly, and that they had stopped pumping him full of drugs to keep him asleep quite some time ago. So he should have been awake by now. But—bless him, Conner had always been a heavy sleeper. So Martha took a few breaths to compose herself, then reached for her youngest son’s hand. Fortunately, the hand on this side of the bed was the uninjured hand. Unfortunately for Conner, it was only his left that was uninjured, meaning until his right healed up, he’d be out of luck for most tasks.

Not that that would be a problem. If Martha had to do everything for Conner for the rest of his life, she would. But for his sake, she hoped he’d heal quickly.

And not just his hand, but his head, too.

Martha gave his hand a soft squeeze. “You’ll be alright, Conner,” she said, soothingly as she could. “It’s going to be okay. But be a dear and wake up for me? It’s been awfully lonely here since your Pa ran home.”

There was no immediate response, of course. But as Martha held his hand and smoothed her thumb over his scabbed up knuckles, she slowly became aware of Conner’s hand squeezing back. It was weak—weaker than anything she’d ever have associated with her youngest son. But it meant he was awake.

He was bleary-eyed, bless him, and more confused than she’d ever seen him before. But awake. Besides, the confusion didn’t scare her. The doctors had warned her about that—warned her that this was more than just a concussion, which Conner had already had plenty of through high school and college. This was much more serious—it had needed hours and hours of surgery. So it made sense that he’d still be a little confused. And as much as it worried her, she knew to expect it.

“Good morning, Conner,” Martha said, calm as she could be, though she wanted to cry. “How are you feeling?”

Conner didn’t answer immediately. He opened his mouth a few times, but seemed to be having trouble with the words. But finally—finally, he found his voice. “Tired,” he said, voice scratchy and unused. “I’m feeling really tired.”

Martha forced back a laugh. “Well, I suppose you’ve _only_ been asleep for three days. No wonder you’re still tired.”

The joke didn’t seem to register to Conner—not at first. But when it did, he managed a few breathy, uncertain chuckles. Nothing like his usual laugh. But Martha would take it.

“Are you feeling hungry, sweetheart?” she asked. “I can buzz in the nurse for you. Or maybe I can call your Pa, see if he’s willing to smuggle in something to eat.”

Conner looked up at her, and he seemed to be thinking hard about something. What he wanted to eat, if Martha knew him at all. But then, he shook his head—the tiniest motion, and even it seemed to pain him. He reached for his head, wincing. “Nothing to eat,” he said. “Sorry. Headache. Can you tell me what… uh, what exactly happened?”

It pained Martha to see her youngest baby in pain. But reluctantly, she patted his knee and sat back down in the chair beside the bed. “You were in a terrible football injury,” she said. “I don’t know what your teammates were thinking, throwing the ball back to you when the other team was right up on you.”

Conner forced a smile. “Ah. Anything else…?”

Martha furrowed her brow. “Well… I was told you were already a little roughed up. You ought to know better than to play while injured, sweetheart. You got hurt so badly as it is—but you could have been killed if it’d been any worse. They say…” She trailed off. “Oh, sweetheart. They say you’ll never play football again.”

For a minute, Conner just stared at her, like he wasn’t sure what to say. But then, his expression gradually changed. “Oh,” he said. Then, almost as if he was talking about someone other than himself, “That’s… awful.”

“It is.” She squeezed his hand again. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m just so glad you’re okay. Your Pa and I can take you home for the rest of the semester to let you figure this out. I’m sure it’s a shock—you were so excited about the NFL…”

Conner squeezed her hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sure everything’s going to be just fine.” But then, he hesitated. “We should probably get a nurse in here. I … I, uh, don’t feel very good. I think, maybe, I should get checked out soon. To um, make sure I’m… everything’s in working order.”

“Of course you don’t feel very good. You had surgery just two days ago.” Martha sighed, then buzzed for the nurse. She went on her tiptoes to kiss her son’s forehead, just over one of the incisions they’d made. “Everything will be alright, sweetheart. I’ll take care of everything.”

\--

When the nurse came, she asked to speak to Conner in private. And, while Martha was a little offended at being excluded from the conversation, it didn’t seem to have been anything of any importance.

“She was telling me the physical activities that I was, and wasn’t, able to do until I healed, and some of them were a little… embarrassing,” Conner said once Martha got back to the room. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing you couldn’t have overheard. I don’t think I would have been inviting girlfriends over like this anyways.”

Martha would have blushed or swatted at his arm for that comment normally—but for now, she took it as a sign that Conner was feeling more like himself.

“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t feel deprived,” she teased. “Not that you’ve written home about a girl in years. Is there something you’d like to tell me, though? I promise, I won’t tell Clark.”

Conner furrowed his brows and opened his mouth to ask something—then seemed to think better of it. “Not currently,” he said. “She and I, uh, broke up. A few weeks ago. It wasn’t serious enough to tell you, and then it was over.”

Martha gently rubbed his arm. “So sorry about that, love. But at least you can focus on getting yourself better, hm? Now let’s get you home. I want you out of that hospital gown and into something more comfortable as soon as we can.”

Hopefully, once they were home, this nightmare would end. And they could get to work on mending her youngest child's body as quickly as possible. Lord willing, it would only take six weeks. And then he could have his life back.

**Author's Note:**

> Conner Kent does not, in fact, get his life back.


End file.
